Antique of the Week #1: Kitty Cat Chocolate Tin

They don’t make confectionery packaging like they used to.

In the downtown area of Quincy, Illinois is a little shop called Funky Finds. You know it by the large, groovy sign on their front window, rings of pink and orange and baby blue converging around a psychedelic font.  

The first part of the store does not do its variety justice. After the gentleman at the counter asks if there’s anything in particular you’re looking for and you kindly tell him no, just browsing, you keep going. There are a few shelves of rusted hand tools and a pot of stale coffee left out for customers. Then you reach a room flowing with clothes and shoes. Organized, gently ruffled chaos. You find some local volleyball team T-shirts, some old Dockers, some sweaters pulled from Grandma’s closet with her perfume still fading away. 

Then, you turn a corner. The volume of stuff on every table and shelf explodes into a trove. Lamps, kitchen tchotchkes, records packed in milk crates, dollar paperbacks. When you pick up an especially nice perfume bottle or a postcard sent from a St. Louis vacation in 1962, you’re careful to put it back just as it was. There’s a balance built here over many years, and you don’t want to disturb it. 

The hoard thins as you reach the last room, the biggest. There’s mostly furniture here, a few well-worn rugs, a black rotary phone. Then, on one of the tables, you see this:

The exact date this was made is impossible to pin down on Google, but it seems to be within the 1930s–50s. 

The Victorian artwork is a delight to look at. The fanciful typography, the vivid blue flowers, and of course, the super cute kittens. The box is in great shape, no major dents or discoloration, although the lid comes off one of the hinges if not opened carefully. It’s $15—more than you would’ve liked to spend—but how can you say no to this?

Lime??? 

You gather your findings, the chocolate tin your golden item of the day, and head back to the front. At the counter, the gentleman who greeted you checks out your finds. He was a disembodied voice before, but now he’s a stout 60-something with a full peppered beard and Santa-like glasses. He keys everything by hand into a beige cash register from 1993, sitting on his bar stool, clearing his throat often.

“Did you find everything okay?” he asks. His eyes never leave the register.

“Yes,” you say, “maybe a little too okay.”

His two granddaughters hover, nudging your items closer to him to help. One is about 10, the other 7. They start a few back and forths, and their grandpa tells them sternly to hush. The younger one holds out a basket of candy. She suggests the Blow Pops, so you take a cherry one and thank her. The older one helps herself to a Tootsie Roll and says your hair looks cool. You thank her too. 

“We’re glad you came in,” the man says without smiling, but you know he means it. He hands you the plastic bag stuffed with your knickknacks. Some he wrapped in old newspapers. He hands you a business card with the same logo from the storefront. “Please come by again.”

The granddaughters tell you bye. You tell the man you’ll come back. And you mean it.